by Tom Bajoras
I hear the wind in lonely fences,
the low and rising growls of wolverine bones
buried under storm-soaked prairies.
I hear the footsteps of ghosts
chasing bison across the plain.
There a marker, hidden in the mud,
tells of a bride snatched by fever
from her young husband’s arms.
Oh the weeping that winter
with the wind in fences
crisscrossing unplowed fields
like snakeskins shed
gone to higher places.